


I Just Called To Say I Love You

by bridgetwestfalls



Category: Wentworth (TV), Wentworth - Fandom
Genre: F/F, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-07
Updated: 2020-11-07
Packaged: 2021-03-09 02:54:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27437653
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bridgetwestfalls/pseuds/bridgetwestfalls
Summary: Life at home just isn’t the same after Franky gets remanded back to Wentworth. Everything is miserable, and Bridget spends her nights wallowing in pity and missing her girl. Franky’s in the same boat, so she finds away around it.
Relationships: Franky Doyle & Bridget Westfall, Franky Doyle/Bridget Westfall
Comments: 12
Kudos: 31





	I Just Called To Say I Love You

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after the cell scene from 5x03. This is my first ever Wentworth fanfic and the first fic I’ve written in literal years. This was also 100% meant to be a phone sex fic, but somehow it turned into this blubbery shit and idk I’m not even sorry about it. Feedback is appreciated, but please be nice!

Bridget’s shoulders slumped as she made her way up to her front door. Reaching into her bag, she dug around for her keys and squinted in the dark to locate the one that would unlock her front door, silently scolding herself for forgetting to switch the front light on before she’d left this morning. With a grunt and a few _oh, fuck off_ ’s she got the door open and stepped over the threshold, flicking the switch next to the front door. Theentryway flooded with light, and on autopilot she closed the doors behind her and turned the lock, the deadbolt, and fixed the chain into the fixture on the door.

Once inside, she kicked her shoes off by the welcome mat and left them, one-upturned, in a heap on the floor. Her bag fell down alongside it, and her keys clinked as they dropped onto the kitchen island that she passed on her way to the pantry. It was the same routine every night, had been for months - except now, the house was cold and quiet when she got home, and the kitchen smelled of day-old dishes and the rubbish she’d forgotten to take out instead of the usual something delicious wafting from the oven, and there was no music blaring a little too loud from the speakers and no bubbly brunette dancing around the kitchen in her pyjamas to greet Bridget with a kiss and a glass of wine and an enquiry about how her day went, every single night without fail. It didn’t feel like _home_ anymore.

Shaking the thought from her head, she grabbed a wine glass from the dish drainer and picked up the half-empty bottle on the counter, filling the deep glass to the brim with the red liquid and then taking a swig from the bottle for good measure. She perused the microwave dinners stacked neatly in the bottom of the fridge, the fleeting thought crossing her mind that if they weren’t out of date, they would be soon. The tasteless, cold-in-the-middle dinners only served to make her feel worse and left her feeling hungrier than when she started, so she closed the fridge without grabbing one and, wine glass in hand, started making her way down the hall to her bedroom.

For the first few nights, it was easy to convince herself that her lover was just out of town on some sort of holiday, or a business trip, and that she’d be coming back soon - but lately, when she closed her eyes, all she could see was her girl clad in ugly, offensive teal, stuck behind cold metal bars and barbed wire fences, all alone in that twin bed at night, surrounded by uninviting brick and buzzers and the constant imminent threat of a dreaded Code Black. That’s when the guilt set in, and she could barely bring herself to curl up in her own lavish king bed, with far too many pillows and the duck-down comforter she’d splurged on when the shop was having a sale two winters ago. The floor was what she deserved, she told herself, but after she’d passed out one night propped up against the armchair in the corner of her room and woken up to a dark purple stain spreading over the carpet and her sciatic nerve screaming at her whenever she so much as flexed her toes, she decided that her lover would pitch a fit if she found out she was treating herself like that and let herself sink down into the feathersoft mattress.

She took a long sip of her Shiraz and then set the glass down on her bedside, pulling her phone out of the back pocket of her jeans and setting it down beside it before peeling the pants off and kicking them into the growing pile of laundry in the corner of her room. She hummed a dry, lifeless tune to herself as she shrugged her jacket off and pulled her shirt over her head, discarding them both inside-out on top of the pile as well. Her nightie was bundled up on her pillow where she’d left it that morning and she gave it the sniff test before slipping it over her head, making a half-assed promise to herself that she’d get her laundry done and change her sheets this weekend - which was the last thing she’d said to her girlfriend two weeks ago, the morning before the two of them left for work and only one of them returned home. She flicked the light switch off and relied on the moonlight shining through her window to find her way back to the bed, reaching under the lampshade on the bedside table next to her and switching the lamp on as she climbed under the messy, unmade covers. The head-shaped impression that her lover had left in her pillow the last morning that she’d been here was still perfectly intact, so much so that you’d think she’d been laying there only moments ago and had gotten up to use the bathroom or sneak a chocolate from the stash in the back of the cupboard that Bridget thought she didn’t know about. Bridget turned her head towards the en suite for just a moment, trying to imagine the sound of running water and the quiet, almost imperceptible melody as her girl sang to herself in the shower, and then smiled sadly to herself at the memory.

Bridget’s hands searched under the covers for the remote she’d discarded there last night, finding the object and using it to switch on the TV as she reached for her glass on the nightstand. She flicked through a few channels, pausing for a second to watch an informercial for a fancy, overpriced new kitchen gadget, before settling for the last half an hour of whatever action movie trilogy was playing that Friday night. She barely paid any attention, anyway - sitting in silence only made the hole in her heart feel like it was going to rip open even further, getting bigger and bigger until it swallowed her whole, so she appreciated the background noise that gave her just that tiniest sense of normalcy she needed to not go entirely insane.

The credits were rolling and her empty glass was cradled loosely in her hands as her heavy eyes slipped closed and then open again, her chin lolling onto her chest as she fought consciousness, when the sudden burst of her phone’s ringtone next to her startled her awake. “Fuck!” she exclaimed as she sat bolt upright, barely catching her glass before it rolled off the bed and shattered against the carpet. She reached over to grab the phone, frowning down at the _No Caller ID_ label on the screen as it buzzed in her hand. Her first thought was an annoying telemarketer, but it was well past eleven-thirty and her number blocker prevented most of those calls from coming through anyway. It was generally a rule of Bridget’s never to answer phone calls with anonymous callers on the other end of the line, but anyone calling this late could be in an emergency, so she shrugged and dragged her finger across the answer bar at the bottom of the screen, tentatively bringing the receiver up to her ear. “Hello?”

“You looked hot today.”

The voice on the other end sent instant chills down her spine, her breath hitching in her throat as the hand not holding the phone came up to cover the noise that threatened to escape her mouth. She would know that voice anywhere, it could wake her from the dead, and it had her heart thumping erratically against her chest and static ringing in her ears. She glanced at the window, peering out onto the street past the curtains that she’d neglected to close, as if the owner of that voice would be standing out there with a phone pressed to her own ear, grinning that wicked grin at her; but of course the road was empty, bathed in dim, eerie light from the street lamps. Bridget pulled the phone away from her ear to look at the screen, wondering for a moment if she was hearing things, but the call timer was ticking away and Bridget could hear the unmistakable sound of breathing coming from the other end of the line.

She pressed the phone back to her ear, pushing her hair off her sweaty forehead. “Franky?” It came out in a whisper.

“Why’re you the one whispering?” came the response, and she could hear the smile in the other girl’s voice. Tears sprung to Bridget’s eyes and she blinked them away, but not before a few slipped past her eyelashes and trickled down her cheeks.

“Franky,” she said again, hoping the prisoner couldn’t hear the raw emotion in her voice. “How- what the fuck, Franky?”

There was a pause, and Bridget could practically see her lover worrying her bottom lip between her teeth as she thought of what to say next. “Hey, Gidge.”

“Baby, what are you doing? How on earth did you get a goddamn phone?”

“I missed ya,” was Franky’s answer, and Bridget had to grip the covers beneath her to stave off the sob that threatened to tear out of her throat. “I, uh, borrowed it from Mercado’s cell. Don’t worry, I’m bein’ careful.” She added that last bit before Bridget could get a word in, and Bridget resisted the urge to scold her like a disobedient child.

Bridget squeezed her eyes shut. “Franky, I miss you too,” she said, and every fiber of her being meant it. “But baby, god, you can’t be doing stuff like this. If you get caught-“

“Don’t worry about it.” Franky’s tone was firm and Bridget shut her mouth, rubbing the frown lines out of her forehead that she knew were becoming more and more prominent every day. “I know what I’m doing. It’s just fuckin’ lonely in here, Gidge, and I can’t stand seein’ ya every day and not being able to talk to ya.” Bridget could see her face behind her closed eyelids, practically hear the tremble of her bottom lip, and her heart ached. It was hell for both of them, having to dodge each other in the corridors, barely making eye contact, and every time she walked past Franky she could just feel the gravitational pull that made her want to wrap her arms around the younger girl and never let go.

“I know, baby,” she whispered, her voice thick with tears. “I’m lonely, too. You got no idea.”

Franky sniffled, and Bridget could hear the rustling of fabric on the other end of the line. “I just wanna come home to ya, you know?”

She sounded so small. Bridget sighed and settled back against her pillows, tapping her thumb absently against the empty glass she was still holding. She knew that every moment Franky was on the phone to her was another moment that she could be caught with the contraband and sent off for a two-week vacation in the wet cells, but Bridget didn’t think she had it in her to tell Franky goodnight and hang up just yet. The only words they’d spoken to each other since Franky went back in were a couple of rushed conversations in the corridors, always wary of the watchful eyes of the Governor and other prisoners, a few sneaky meetings in Bridget’s office with the blinds drawn tight and their ears on alert for any movement out in the hallway, and... their argument in Franky’s cell. The memory of it sent a stab of hurt through Bridget’s gut and she was mad again, but only for a second. Franky was stressed, confused, and utterly terrified - and while Bridget knew that was no excuse for the way Franky had treated her, she deserved a little bit of lenience given the circumstances.

Franky must’ve read her mind, because there was a shaky sigh from the other end of the line and then, “Gidge, I... I wanted to apologise for the way I spoke to you the other day. And for layin’ into ya like that. I shouldn’t have said those things, or- you know.” Her voice was hushed, and Bridget didn’t know if it was because she was trying not to attract the attention of a screw or because it would crack if she spoke any louder. She came to the conclusion it was a mixture of both. She pursed her lips and pulled the phone away from her face to sniff, but she knew Franky would’ve heard it anyway.

“You’re going through a lot right now, and you lashed out. It’s not unusual for you to take your frustrations out on whatever’s in front of you, and I just happened to be in the firing line.” Her voice was calculated, a little bit of her twenty years of psych training coming through, and she heard Franky huff. She waited for the snide remark, the _I don’t need ya to psychoanalyse me right now_ in the icy tone she got when she got defensive, but it never came. “I forgive you,” Bridget added gently, pulling her knees up to her chest. “And I love you.”

Franky sobbed. Bridget bit her bottom lip to stifle her own. “I love you, too,” Franky said, her voice a whimper, and then she sniffled and cleared her throat. “I didn’t mean to get all weepy on ya, I swear. I just fuckin’ hate it here, Gidge, you’ve got no idea.”

“I don’t, but I can imagine. Just hang in there for me, baby, okay? I’ll see if I can bribe Vera into giving us a counselling session tomorrow and we’ll talk in person. Maybe we can even sneak a cuddle, yeah?”

Franky chuckled. “Vinegar Tits will be posted outside the door listenin’ for anything that isn’t strictly industry talk, but yeah. I’d like that.”

Bridget laughed, ignoring the use of the crude nickname that she knew Vera hated to hear, and grabbed Franky’s pillow, pulling it close to her chest and wrapping herself around it. “Would it help if I brought you a little something from home?” she asked tentatively, almost regretting the words as soon as they left her mouth. Her job was important to her, and she knew that getting caught with contraband that she intended to give to a prisoner would carry serious consequences, but she couldn’t bear the thought of Franky having to spend nights alone in that miserable cell, and surely a pillowcase or one of Bridget’s nightshirts wouldn’t be considered a crime.

“Actually, yeah, I think it would. But only if it’s a pair of your lacy panties. Double points if you’ve worn ‘em all day.” The cheeky humour that lived almost permanently in Franky’s voice was back, and it made Bridget’s heart soar. She couldn’t hold back a laugh, and Franky gave her one in return.

“We’ll see. Now, as much as I’d love to keep talking to you, it’s getting late and there’s a staff meeting tomorrow morning that I have to be in early for,” Bridget said, and she heard Franky make a noise of protest. “Ah, but, hopefully Vera’s in a good mood and I’ll ask her about the session, okay?”

“‘Kay,” Franky sighed, and there was more rustling from the other end of the line. Bridget imagined her rolling onto her stomach, her favourite way to sleep, and wondered if she was wearing her dark blue pyjamas or the pink ones she wore when it was warmer. “See you in my dreams.”

“See you in mine,” Bridget sighed. In that moment, there was nothing she wouldn’t have done to have her love in her arms instead of a vaguely Franky-smelling pillow, but she didn’t let herself dwell on it too much. “Night, baby.”

“Nuh-night.”

Bridget pulled the phone away from her ear but didn’t hang up straight away, and neither did Franky. Bridget’s thumb hovered over the red ‘end call’ button for a second, waiting to see if Franky would end the call first, but she didn’t, so Bridget let her thumb drop and the phone made a little beep to signal the end of the call. Almost immediately her eyes welled with tears again and she buried her face in Franky’s pillow, letting the sobs overtake her body for a few minutes now that she was alone again. A late-night news anchor was drawling on about stocks on the TV when she calmed down, and she watched the mindless drivel all the way into the sports category before she uncurled herself from her pity ball and reached for the remote to turn the TV off. She was tempted to stay where she was and just let sleep take her into unconsciousness for a while, but there was nothing worse than wine breath in the morning and she still had all her makeup on, so she set her glass down on the nightstand and forced herself to get up, padding into the en suite.

When she climbed back into bed, she switched the TV off and leaned over to fish her phone’s charger cable from the powerboard on the floor next to her. It wasn’t until she’d plugged the cable into the charger port on her phone that she realised she’d gotten a text message from an unknown number, and she couldn’t help the smile that spread across her face when she read the text that was so undoubtedly from her Franky.

_So, what are you wearing?_


End file.
